


Heart of Clay

by manic_intent



Series: A Pound of Flesh [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternative Werewolf Lore, M/M, That AU where Haytham and Connor are unrelated, and Connor is one of the wolf-people of the New World, and Haytham buys him off an auction block to save him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:02:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1280356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Note: You DON'T need to read A Pound of Flesh to understand this fic, it's just sort of in the same semi-mythological mood.] </p><p>The executioner's platform was lined with shackled, shambling figures that seemed frozen in varying degrees of half-man, half-beast shapes, clothed either in rags or filthy animal skins, men, women and children both. Some looked more great wolf than man, with shaggy brown or gray coats and long, tufted ears and manes: one man even had a wolf-like head instead of anything remotely human. Some had paws, many had tails, all had far more hair down the neck than humanly possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart of Clay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brokibrodinson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokibrodinson/gifts).



> I saw some wolfboy Connor fanart on the conhayth tumblr page and I love them cough cough Unfortunately I don't have the links here and I couldn't find it on a quick googlefu, but go check out the tags. :) Brokibrodinson originally asked for a vampire!conhayth fic, but I think I've had enough of writing vampire fic for now.

I.

"Charles," Haytham said crisply, "What is _that_?"

"Survivors from the morning raid," Charles supplied, as he reined up next to Haytham, glancing briefly down the street to the town square. 

The executioner's platform was lined with shackled, shambling figures that seemed frozen in varying degrees of half-man, half-beast shapes, clothed either in rags or filthy animal skins, men, women and children both. Some looked more great wolf than man, with shaggy brown or gray coats and long, tufted ears and manes: one man even had a wolf-like head instead of anything remotely human. Some had paws, many had tails, all had far more hair down the neck than humanly possible. 

All had feral, golden eyes, either cast down at their feet or darting around the crowd with an animal's caged panic. They were bound each at arms' length, iron chains shot through with silver, and when pushed or shoved, made huffing, low barking sounds.

"The devil you say," Haytham frowned. "I thought that Johnson was handling the natives. I do believe that words along the line of _tact_ and _delicacy_ were bandied about during our last discussion?"

Charles winced. "Yes, sir, though, this attack, it was ordered by Washington, and-" 

Haytham exhaled irritably, cutting Charles off. "What is _wrong_ with that man? Can't he see that aggravating the natives will only cause more trouble? And what is this spectacle about? Surely he isn't going to execute women and children in the middle of New York!"

"Oh," Charles said uncomfortably, "Well. This is, ah, a slave auction, sir. You see, it's about... the dogfighting rings," he noted delicately. 

Haytham looked blank for a moment, then his brow crinkled briefly in disgust. "Have Johnson investigate those as well. Are they _all_ destined for the pits?"

"Only the more... wolf-like ones," Charles hesitated, then added more quickly, "The rings are a popular underground betting activity among the enlisted soldiers."

"What happens to the others?" Haytham asked, blinking. "Only about four of them look very noticeably lupine. What about the other six?" 

"They're popular curios for the rich back in London. Especially the children." 

Haytham grimaced as Charles' tone dawned upon him. "I see. Somehow, I hadn't quite expected to have my general opinion of humanity lowered yet further during my stay in the New World. I must be growing complacent."

"We could try to intervene," Charles said doubtfully. "If that is your wish, sir. I could get Hickey into position and-"

"Heavens no. That'll call far too much attention to our operations, and I have yet to find this elusive precursor site." 

Haytham scowled at the auction platform, where the bulkier, more wolf-like adults were already being sold off to a group of hard-eyed, smoking men in overalls and faded shirts. Probably not the true source of the money, Haytham decided critically; it might be worth his while to find out who controlled the so-called 'dogfighting' syndicates across the New World cities. If anything, in his experience, iniquity often bred power, and the Templar hold on the New York and Boston territories was still unsettled.

When it was the children's turn, Haytham found himself watching as a slender boy was jerked forward. He had some of the least wolf-like markings at all: only large, tufted gray ears and a large brush of a tail - and his feral eyes, which glared at the crowd with anger and defiance rather than fear. When the auctioneer grabbed at the boy's jaw to show his teeth, the boy jerked back, using momentum, surprise and the heft of his chains to tug the far bigger man off balance, then he snapped his knee sharply into the man's jaw, breaking it. 

Snarling in triumph, as the man groaned and writhed in pain, the boy spun to face his other captors, ears flattened against his skull, but his defiance was short-lived: shackled as he was, the boy was pinned quickly. The mood of the crowd was turning ugly, and the other prisoners were either struggling or moaning and weeping, and as Haytham watched with narrowing eyes, one of the auctioneers was pulling out a long bull whip from the saddle of a horse. 

"Charles," Haytham decided, his tone clipped, "Would you be so kind as to inform those gentlemen that I have need of a servant. _Undamaged_." 

Charles shot him a startled look, then when Haytham arched an eyebrow at him, he pressed his heels to his horse, nudging the poor beast into a quick canter to get to the square in time. Haytham didn't bother to watch, already wheeling his steed behind to head back to his villa, letting out a low, soft breath as he did so. 

Johnson would have to be called to account, and another solution found, perhaps. Haytham was convinced that he still needed the native folk to find the precursor site, and this- 

Well. Haytham was no saint, but what had happened to his half-sister in the past had forever soured him to the nature of slavery, and the grave cruelties that a thirst for power could mete on the unsuspecting.

1.0.

Anger. The breaking of Pack. Grief. The Great-Mother was dead, as was his One-Mother, cruelly slain. Exhausted, Ratonhnhaké:ton bided his time, waiting. One of the Clay People had bought him from the Pack-breakers, and had dragged him to a den. He had been given food and water, which he ate, too hungry to think about poison, and Clay People clothes, which he ignored. He had been given a room in the den that, typical for the Clay People, smelled wrong in far too many ways: it was what unlife would smell like, Ratonhnhaké:ton decided grimly.

He didn't know why the Clay People had quarrelled over him. The one who had bought him had smelled like tension and anger and gunpowder and leather, and he wore the bright clothes of one of the Pack-breakers: he looked and smelled familiar - he had been at the Burning of the Dens, Ratonhnhaké:ton was sure of it. Ratonhnhaké:ton had not fought him when his chains had been sundered from the rest of the Pack and he had been dragged away. One was easier to fight than many. 

Now he was not so sure. The room door had been left unlocked, rather to Ratonhnhaké:ton's surprise, and the silver collar removed, even all of his chains. He had slept facing the door the first night, too tired to question the curiosity, having dragged some of the unlife cloth onto the ground to make bedding. The journey from the Pack-lands had been hard, and his feet were blistered and hurt, and he was starved. 

Still, Ratonhnhaké:ton tried to steal away in the morning. The window to his room was sealed, but he crept out of the unlocked door once he could hear no footsteps outside, his ears upright and alert for any warning sounds. As he stepped with quiet feet along the corridor, he made care to pick his way as silently as he could past any open doors, and-

"Awake already, boy?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton froze, blinking. The Clay One who had spoken had his back to him, and was sitting within one of the rooms, at a desk. He wore the odd, many-layered unlife clothes like any of the Clay People, though his seemed more elaborate, bulkier. A hat hung from a stand beside the doorway, and there was a slender blade sheathed at the Clay One's side: serviceable, not gaudy. Streaks of gray were starting to run through the Clay One's hair, and when he turned to regard Ratonhnhaké:ton, his expression was amused rather than hostile. 

But his _eyes_. Ratonhnhaké:ton fought the sudden, uncomfortably strange instinct to tuck his tail down and roll over. Blinking, he bit down on the inside of his cheek, berating himself. One night in a Clay One's den and - but his _eyes_. They were in the unwashed colours of a Clay One, but there was strength there, and will, and purpose, like a Pack-Father; there was death, and there was cruelty, and steel. 

"Can you speak English?" the Clay One said, with a trace of irritation in his voice, and Ratonhnhaké:ton had to clench his hands tightly not to drop his gaze.

"Some," he said finally, uncertain enough to be honest.

"Your name?" 

Ratonhnhaké:ton bristled. The Great-Mother had told them always not to give away their One-Name to any of the ungifted. He gave a stubborn, half-shake of his head, and the Clay One snorted. "I can't keep calling you 'boy'." 

"I have no Clay name." The words came out wrongly, Ratonhnhaké:ton was sure of it: he had no name to give to one of the Clay, but this seemed to be the right answer: the Clay One nodded gravely.

"Very well. I'll give you a name then." The Clay One looked around his room absently, as though casting about for inspiration, then his eyes rested on the spine of a journal. "Connor. How about Connor?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton shrugged. The Clay One could say whatever he liked. He seemed friendly enough, and once his attention was diverted, Ratonhnhaké:ton would escape. 

"If you are looking for the washing facilities, which I _hope_ you are, you can use the set on the ground floor. The clothes in your room should fit you, they've been modified to fit your tail," the Clay One said briskly. "If you are looking to leave, leave if you wish, but you have nowhere to go. Your village has been razed. Your people are scattered and sold. _And_ ," he added imperiously, "You owe me a debt."

Ratonhnhaké:ton shot the Clay One an incredulous look. " _You_ killed the People!"

"Not I," the Clay One said sharply. " _I_ saved you from the ones who did. Do you understand?"

Frowning, Ratonhnhaké:ton mulled this over. His door had no lock. The food and water provided had been more than adequate: it wasn't the rotting or stale fare that had been thrown to his broken Pack on their way to this Clay One denworld. This Clay One was speaking to him as People, not pretending that he was a beast. 

"Trap," he said finally, if a little uncertainly, and the Clay One rolled his eyes. 

"Fine. If your people value debts so lightly, go."

Stung, Ratonhnhaké:ton thought about snapping a retort, but his uneven grasp of the Clay One's language would make it a poor retort at best. Narrowing his eyes, he backed away, almost expecting the Clay One to leap for his throat at any moment, or fire one of their steel weapons, but the Clay One merely sniffed and turned back to his desk, ignoring him.

Turning his shoulder, the way a Pack-Father would to rebuke a cub. Ratonhnhaké:ton bared his teeth, crouching for a moment, then he decided to leave the matter as it was. He couldn't take on an adult Clay One like this, with no resources at hand. He stole down the stairs lightly, and climbed out of one of the open lower floor windows, creeping across the trimmed grass to a fence, then up to a tree. 

Away from the den, Ratonhnhaké:ton tried not to breathe in too deeply. The denworld of the Clay Ones _stank_ : of too many animals, of too many Clay Ones, of unlife and broken Nature and worse. Glancing around, he leaped from the tree to another, clambering up the heavy boughs and to the roof of another den. 

He got as far as a moon's whisper before he was spotted. A Clay One was standing on the roof of a den, and at his shout, other Clay Ones in bright clothes - like the Pack-breakers - soon shouted and pointed, scrambling to get to him, clambering clumsily up onto the roofs. He ran, nimble and quick, knowing he couldn't face their weapons, or their numbers, but the denworld was disorienting and the scents were worse and soon he was lost, and tiring fast, and drawing a frightening amount of attention and _there_ \- that tree-

Pursuit didn't stop at the gate when Ratonhnhaké:ton darted into the house of the one who had given him a Clay name, through the open window: as he hurried into the back, looking for a place to hide, a purposeful if respectful knock rapped on the door. Ratonhnhaké:ton pressed himself under the stair, finally: it would be the best place to ambush anyone unsuspecting, and it would be hard to dig him out of it - even as the knock rapped again, louder.

"Coming!" A female Clay One rushed out, hurrying towards the door, and opened it. "What is the meaning of this, making such a racket at this time of day?"

"Pardon me, miss," one of the Clay Ones who had been pursuing him said brusquely, "But we have reason to believe that one of the Wolf-Men is hiding here. No need to panic."

"That's ridiculous. Do you think that I wouldn't have _noticed_?"

"He got in through that window over there." 

"Oh for _heaven's sake_ , is this some ruse? Do you know whose house this is? Master Kenway will not take kindly to all this ruckus!"

"I doubt that Master Kenway would take kindly to a Wolf-boy muddying his carpets, either." There was an outraged, shrill cry - the female had been brushed aside, and from the tramp of boots, the Clay Ones had intruded into the den. There was a flurry of steps as the female retreated upstairs, and Ratonhnhaké:ton shrank deeper into the shadows under the stairs. He could make a run for it if necessary, out through the back door, if he took them by surprise. 

Then there was a growled outburst of irritation from above, and footsteps clattered down the stairway and to the door. "What is the meaning of this?" the Clay One den-owner growled, and there was violence in his tone, the way Ratonhnhaké:ton had never heard it, not even from the Pack-Father of his Pack when the Clay Ones had first come into their lands. He shivered.

The other Clay Ones were cowed. "Begging your pardon, sir, but there's a Wolf-boy in your house and-"

"Well, of course there is," the Clay One den-owner snapped, "I bought one the other day from the auction block. Don't tell me that you've compounded trespassing with damaging another man's property?"

"Sir, I... oh, we didn't know, ah, please accept our apologies, sir." the Clay Ones retreated, with many servile fawning words, and in the dark under the stairs, Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked slowly in wonder and surprise. He was still sitting on his tail when a shadow fell over the opening to his makeshift hiding place, and the den-owner was scowling at him.

"There you are. Kindly use the washing facilities, if you're intent on staying. Miss Glaser, I trust he hasn't destroyed the carpeting with his bare feet?"

"Poor little mite," the female Clay One peeked in from behind the den-owner. "Look at him, all starved. Why can't we just leave their kind be?"

"I'll be sure to mention your policy recommendation to Washington the next time I see him," the den-owner said flatly, and straightened up. "Connor, should you try yet again to broaden your horizons over the rooftops of New York in the near future, _do_ have the courtesy not to lead pursuit to my house."

He stalked off, and Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't realize that he had his tail and ears drooping as though suitably rebuked until the female Clay One clucked her tongue. "Well, come here then," she said, kindly enough. "I've got a bath drawn up, and I'll fetch your clothes, and make something nice and hearty for dinner. Don't mind the Master, he can be stern, but he's fair." 

She chattered all the way as, bemused, Ratonhnhaké:ton grudgingly followed her to a room in the den which had a large tub of warm water, an inedible lump of slippery unlife, and folded cloths. He washed off the grime from his skin gratefully enough, if guiltily: finally sparing a thought for the fate of his broken Pack, Spirits, his _mother_ , and was in an ill mood again by the time the female Clay One deemed him suitably clean, dried, and hustled him into Clay One clothes.

The clothes were _tight_ , and itched a little, and were a little too short at his wrists; the breeches had, however, been cunningly modified to copy the ones worn by the One-People: an opening for a tail, with a button that caught the seam above the root. Ratonhnhaké:ton refused the shoes and stockings: the shoes weren't as soft as the moccasins he was used to, and his feet were worn enough as it is. The rest he suffered to wear, even as the clothes chafed, too weary from the long chase over the rooftops to object as he was given a bowl of something warm and filling to eat afterwards. 

The female Clay One was arranging bowls of food, bread and various odds and ends on a tray, along with a glass of red fire-water, and Ratonhnhaké:ton eyed her warily as she finally held the tray out to him. "If you're going to be helping out around here," she said firmly, "You're going to have to pull your share. Do please take that up to Master Kenway, and try not to spill anything. If you're well enough to give the city guards such a chase all over New York that they're angry enough to barge into here, you can handle a tray and the stairs."

Ratonhnhaké:ton decided that he was too tired to argue. He needed rest, and he needed time, so he would play along for now. Handling the heavy tray took care and balance, but he made it up the stairs with no mishap, and through to the den-owner's room, where he hesitated, uncertain. 

"Just put that over at the side," the den-owner said distractedly, without looking up, and Ratonhnhaké:ton considered the room carefully before selecting a low side table beside the window, sliding the heavy tray gratefully upon it. "Decided to stay after all, Connor?"

"Now," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, and fought the urge to step away when the den-owner glanced at him - then blinked, as though seeing him again for the first time. 

The surprise folded away quickly: the Clay One's expression was neutral again as he looked him up and down briskly. "You clean up fairly well, at least. Shoes are not optional, by the way. I know that your kind wear shoes."

"Feet hurt," Ratonhnhaké:ton muttered, irritated at the Clay One's tone. 

"Ah, of course. Well then, give it time, but then I expect shoes, if you're still here." The den-owner's tone was sardonic. "Since you've decided to stay the night, I do believe we should set some ground rules. One-"

"No lead other Clay Ones to den?" Ratonhnhaké:ton cut in, his irritation growing.

"Very good," the den-owner drawled. "I'm relieved to see that you're a bright child after all. Two, _don't_ interrupt me when I'm _speaking_." 

Death bucked into the den-owner's tone, and Ratonhnhaké:ton flinched before he could catch himself. Pinned by the Clay One's unforgiving stare, he could only manage a slow nod.

"Three, you will address me as 'sir', or 'Master Kenway'. It is not a matter of bigotry but one of respect. Yes?"

Another nod. This one, Ratonhnhaké:ton would concede. This was the Clay One's den, after all.

"Four, if you so choose to stay, you will do what Miss Glaser tells you and help out around the house. I may also have the occasional task for you, but I think that would be unlikely. The rest of your time is your own and you can do with it as you please, as long as you bring no trouble to me or my own." 

Even in his current sullen mood, Ratonhnhaké:ton could see that those were fair terms indeed. He nodded cautiously. "Leave?"

"Whenever you like. If you can," Master Kenway said, and this time, when he smiled, it was with the moon-humor of a Pack-Father, with the fell laugh that bites. Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked slowly, intrigued despite himself, his tail flicking from side to side, uncertain. 

"Stay," he said finally. He had never been without Pack, and his Pack was broken. This substitute, for now, would have to do.

II.

The wolf-boy picked up English remarkably quickly, and after Haytham set Johnson to teaching him his letters, apparently was progressing quickly on that front, as well. Clearly the unwashed public's opinion that the natives were beast-like and stupid was an ignorant one. As usual.

More importantly, Connor was unobtrusive, and didn't overtly annoy the housekeeper, and hadn't brought any more guards back to Haytham's door. It wasn't that Connor didn't leave the house - Haytham had seen him climbing out at times in the early dusk, and had heard the housekeeper's occasional complaint about the state of Connor's clothes in the morning: but the boy was getting better at moving about unseen, which suited Haytham. The best teacher was experience, after all.

Charles had been openly skeptical about Haytham's decision to keep housing and feeding the wolf-boy. "They're feral things," Charles said, after a debrief in the taverns, as they walked back slowly through the darkening streets to Haytham's house. "You heard Johnson. Their culture, their very thoughts - are utterly different. Alien."

"Aren't dogs tamed wolves?" Haytham asked facetiously.

Charles scowled - his love of small, useless dogs was unfortunately well-known, and a sore point ever since Hickey had found out and taken to teasing him about it. "No sir. Begging your pardon, sir, but dogs are far from wolves. That boy will bite your hand one day."

"And you think that I can't handle a native boy?"

"I'm just wondering, sir," Charles replied evenly, though he dropped his eyes, "Why you're bothering with him at all, when Johnson's making some headway with the natives."

"Because," Haytham began, then hesitated, and exhaled. "He would have killed that man on the platform, given a couple more minutes. Half-starved and beaten and slight as he was. I appreciate talent, Charles. Dogs become soldiers. For an assassin, I need a wolf."

That silenced Charles all of the walk back, and once they were in his study, Haytham gave final instructions about their current ongoing surveillance project in Boston; details that Hickey and the others didn't particularly need to know. He stopped in the middle of an intricate discussion about scaring up potential allies from the local barracks by a sound outside his door, soft and almost unnoticeable. Haytham wouldn't have thought to check if he hadn't been half-expecting it.

Connor was peeking in, his ears pricked high with curiosity, and he ducked away when Haytham arched an eyebrow at him. "Should you truly give him free run of the house?" Charles asked, dropping his hand from the hilt of his blade a little sheepishly.

"What harm could he do?"

"You were just mentioning his... talents, sir," Charles noted politely, and Haytham had to swallow an irrational spark of irritation. He was grooming Charles for higher command, which meant that the man had to have a backbone, but sometimes-

"Connor, come here." At his brisk statement, there was a short pause, then Connor edged back into view. There was no fear in his eyes, only curiosity and some degree of caution - all directed at Charles, Haytham noted to his amusement, and the boy's brush of a tail was flicking back, tipping high. "Here, child."

Connor stepped into the room on soft feet, dressed primly, like a page boy: one of the housekeeper's affectations. He had to be coaxed into a cravat, and the boots had been an uphill battle, but all in all, Haytham thought critically, the boy pulled the look off better than any of the so-called human brats he had seen about in New York, even London. 

"Greet our guest, Connor."

Connor fidgeted, then he muttered, "'night." 

It took a little effort to remain impassive as he watched irritation briefly cross Charles' face. Connor had become nominally friendly with Johnson, and even tolerated Hickey and the others, but Charles he still openly disliked. 

"I trust that you had a reason for interrupting?"

"Not interrupt," Connor corrected quickly. "Listening."

"You were eavesdropping on us?" 

Connor looked blank for a moment, but under Haytham's steady stare he dropped the ingenuous act, and mumbled under his breath in his language. Finally, he shrugged, a sure sign that the boy was going to be stubborn about this, which would only reinforce Charles' opinion of Haytham's seemingly poor decision where Connor was involved. 

Dismissing Charles, Haytham waited, listening, until the housekeeper had let him out of the house before glancing back at Connor, whose tail was flicking back and forth with impatience. "Mind telling me what your problem with Charles is, boy?" 

"You are Clay One," Connor said, using what Johnson had mentioned was the natives' term for non-wolf people. "No Pack, but you have a Pack that is not a Pack, and if you have Pack you must have good Pack." 

More of the boy's annoyingly circular, cryptic statements. Haytham would have to mention something to Johnson. Maybe something was getting lost in translation in the boy's English lessons. "Charles is loyal to me and my cause and that is enough."

"Not good Pack," Connor muttered obstinately. 

"Because he was part of Washington's command? The people who destroyed your Pack?" 

"Pack-breakers. He was there. No..." Connor struggled with an appropriate word for a moment, then seemed to settle with, "No honor."

"Who's been filling your head with such nonsense?" Haytham asked, sardonic again, but then the boy flinched, blinking and wide-eyed, as though he had been struck, and somewhat to his personal surprise, Haytham found himself regretting his sharp tone. "Oh, come here." He stepped over to the boy, the way he dimly remembered his own father doing, far away and an age ago in London, and picked Connor up. 

The boy was slender and light, and was just edging into being too gangly to be picked up like this, but it was worth it just to watch Connor's expression collapse into shock, his ears flattening back, then, just as Haytham thought that Connor would jerk free, slight arms curled tentatively over Haytham's shoulders, and the brushy wolf's tail began to wag.

Well, well. 

"Are you part of my Pack, then?" Haytham asked softly, keeping his tone velvet as Connor tentatively leaned flush against him, resting his chin on Haytham's shoulder as Haytham petted the elegant curve of his back.

"Clay Ones have no Pack," Connor murmured.

"I have one."

"Yes." Connor said, uncertainly. "You are like Pack-Father." 

The sheer pagan flavour of it all nearly made Haytham snort, but he held his tongue until the urge died. "And you?"

This time, the silence was longer. "You are Pack-Father," Connor repeated, and his arms tightened briefly around Haytham's neck, then he began to squirm, and had to be let down. His tail made another slow wag before it was still, and Connor still fidgeted, but he seemed calmer, Haytham decided. Good.

2.0.

Rather to Ratonhnhaké:ton's relief, Master Kenway didn't try to pick him up again after that first and last time. It hadn't been that he had been afraid - he was just wary of how it had felt, balanced in a Clay One's arms, surrounded by the Pack-Father's scent, in a perverse parody of home.

The bad dreams started to fade, but they were always at their worst during the nights of the Great Moon, and on one particularly bad night, frightened, upset, and feeling alone, Ratonhnhaké:ton realized that he had padded silently to Master Kenway's room without even really thinking about it. Blinking, he hesitated outside the closed door, then tried the knob silently. It opened - unlocked - and Ratonhnhaké:ton peeked in cautiously, sniffing, ears up. 

The sound of a light snore from the bed nearly startled him into backing off, but Ratonhnhaké:ton hesitated again at the doorway for a long, breathless moment before he let himself in, closing the door quietly behind him. When he had bad dreams, he would always curl up with the One-Mother, comforted by her scent and warmth. He had never dared it with the Pack-Father then, but here, he was alone. 'Miss Glaser' was not Pack, that much had been clear to Ratonhnhaké:ton from the start: she just came by twice a day to clean up and cook. At night, it was just him and Master Kenway.

As quietly as he could, he stole over to the bed, freezing now and then at a sound from the rolled over figure in the thick blankets, or from the street outside, but eventually, he was at the foot of it. At a loss again, Ratonhnhaké:ton waited, for a very long time, tail twitching, then he let out a startled yelp when Master Kenway said gruffly, without turning around, "Yes, Connor?"

"Ah," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, too embarrassed at being caught for a long moment, then, impulsively, decided to climb onto the bed anyway. Master Kenway turned to regard him, sleepy and openly irritable, dishevelled in his sleep-clothes. The sleep-clothes that Ratonhnhaké:ton wore were too large, the sleeves swallowing his wrists, but they were comfortable enough, odd as they were: Ratonhnhaké:ton could not quite figure out the point of washing an extra set of clothes that one would only wear just to bed. 

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, child," Master Kenway growled, when Ratonhnhaké:ton pressed close, resting his cheek on the Pack-Father's chest the way he used to when he curled up with the One-Mother. "Surely you're too old for night terrors."

"Great Moon," Ratonhnhaké:ton tried to explain, stubbornly refusing to move despite the pointed pushes to his shoulder. "Deep dreaming."

Long fingers hesitated for a moment over his shoulders, then Master Kenway sighed out aloud. "Very well. _Just_ this once." Ratonhnhaké:ton found himself resettled against the cradle of the Pack-Father's arm, which curled against him, warm and safe, the scent of Pack all around him and the evening breathing of the Pack-Father. He slept, and dreamed of Pack, and the wild stars, and the brilliant snow.

III.

Haytham hadn't really meant to teach Connor how to use a blade, despite his original words to Charles, but just like language, the boy picked up the basics frighteningly quickly - just by watching Haytham at practice in the garden or at the fort. Connor tagged along with Haytham whenever he left the house now, trotting by his side like a very overgrown pet - another surprise.

He had tried to ban the boy from doing this at first, but after a couple of incidents where the boy had followed him anyway, over the rooftops or at a distance, he had tried to scare Connor off by telling him that he would have to wear a collar out in public, during the day. Connor had shrugged, and despite the fight Haytham had expected when he had bought a simple black leather collar off the marketplace and presented it to Connor as a final warning, the boy had simply put it on.

Tagged and collared, few people on the street gave Connor more than a second glance, as long as he stayed close. With the purges, native slaves were growing more common, especially with the need for a greater and greater workforce given the ravenous way the cities expanded outwards. Connor said nothing when he saw them, though Haytham knew better than to think that the boy was indifferent. He had heard the occasional reports of escaping slaves, or broken up dogfighting rings: usually through clever sabotage. 

How much more deadly the pup would be when armed. 

"Your footwork is wrong," Haytham said, from where he sat at a desk in the shelter of the wall, watching Connor go through exercises in the courtyard. The boy was filling out quickly, growing taller: at fifteen, he was almost up to Haytham's shoulder, and seemed to be giving no signs of stopping. 

"All wrong?" Connor asked, his ears and tail drooping a little. 

"You're moving like a human," Haytham said absently, "You can't just copy me, boy, use your brain. You have advantages - that tail of yours, for example. Move _naturally_. Balance yourself." 

Connor was far better with the bow, and was proving dangerous with firearms, something that the boy openly took pride in, even with the dubious to outright suspicious glances from the barracked soldiers who sometimes watched Connor at practice.

And, more importantly, Charles had stopped with his complaints. An assassination attempt had been made on Haytham in the streets, bold as brass: or almost made - when they were pushing past a knot of people to get to Haytham's house, Connor had abruptly shot his hand out, grabbing the wrist of an utter stranger a few steps behind them. Haytham had turned, almost prepared to scold the boy, when he recognised the now-revealed bracer under the long sleeves of a coat.

He had thrust his own hidden blade up into the assassin's ribs, under the guise of reassuring the stranger, and had 'settled' the body down to 'rest' at a public bench before briskly walking away, his hand curled tight on Connor's unresisting wrist. Only once they were home did Haytham ask, "You made him out before he attacked." 

"He smelled of death," Connor replied, and despite having witnessed the murder of a man, his eyes were still steady. "Death was coming."

"No doubt." Haytham sucked in a long breath. It looked like another purge was necessary - they _had_ been growing complacent. Damn that Davenport! "Good work." He ruffled Connor's hair, tickling at the boy's ears - and Connor blinked, actually _blushing_ before he ducked hastily out of Haytham's reach. 

Had he never touched Connor's ears before? Haytham waited, but when Connor said nothing, he decided to ignore it. "Do you know what you did wrongly, though?"

"Wrong?"

"Yes, boy. What was wrong?"

"I caught him," Connor said, bewildered.

"Exactly. Had he been any less surprised that a native boy had grabbed his wrist, it would have gone ill for you." Haytham showed Connor his own bracer, turning the underside of his wrist up to show him the mechanism. "You were holding his hand like this. Had he but flexed his wrist, he would have sliced off a finger or two."

"Oh." Connor blinked rapidly, even as he reverently and curiously traced the spring mechanism on the bracer. "So, like this?" He pressed his thumb against the mechanism instead, jamming it.

" _Exactly_ right," Haytham said, pleased enough at Connor's quick grasp of the problem to let it show in his voice, and was amused to see Connor blush again and duck his eyes, dropping his hand from the bracer as though scalded. 

Strange. Still, if the boy wasn't going to talk about it... Haytham had no interest whatsoever in helping a child, let alone a half-wolf child, off puberty or whatever it might be. "Try to pick those people out more quickly if you can. There may be more out there, after me." 

This snapped Connor out of whatever boyish funk he was in - his eyes jumped back up, clear and proud. "Pack-Father protects," he pointed out, though he grinned as he said this, the brat, but sobered up when Haytham arched an eyebrow. "I will find them."

3.0.

Master Kenway probably hadn't expected Ratonhnhaké:ton to include trying to find out more about the hidden bracer Clay Ones in his night-time forays, but it wasn't as though it went against any of the Rules. Besides, it was an interesting vein of enquiry to follow, if only because the assassins were like ghosts, almost impossible to track.

It took him months, through his sixteenth birthday, which had been a rather bewildering affair in the Kenway den. Ratonhnhaké:ton's previous birthdays had been mostly ignored, save for Miss Glaser, who always insisted on baking him something once she had harangued the date out of him and matched Moon-Time to the Clay One calendar, but this one had been a little more elaborate. Master Kenway had been there, along with half of his Pack; there had been a bigger cake, and food, and at the end of it, still bewildered, Ratonhnhaké:ton had been given presents. 

That was new. 

The one he did not like, Charles, had given him a splendidly sewn pouch belt that fit easily over his waist. Hickey had given him a well-made knife, Johnson a new bow that looked as though it had been traded from another Pack. Church and Pitcairn were absent.

The biggest present had been from Master Kenway, though - a set of bracers, like his, that fit Ratonhnhaké:ton's wrists. Hidden knives slipped from them like cougar claws at a flex of his wrist, and the weapon was gorgeous, deadly, and _his_. He still admired them now and then when he stopped for breath, even though it had been weeks. They fit him as though they had always been meant to be there. 

He found his quarry quickly: one of the Clay Ones, a female by the looks of it, making her way nimbly over the trees, deeper into the forests. Ratonhnhaké:ton tracked her silently, staying out of sight, but at one point she darted out of sight. Annoyed at his slip, he ventured over, then down from a branch to a rock, to examine the point where she had seemingly disappeared - only for her to abruptly dart out of a well-hidden hollow in the cliff face and jump at him. 

Cursing the snow for dampening his senses, Ratonhnhaké:ton evaded, but barely - her unsheathed hidden blade cut a few hairs from his tail. They fought on the slippery rocks, evenly matched, his knife against hers: he was stronger, but she was faster - and at the end, after an hour's deadlock, by some unspoken agreement they backed away, Ratonhnhaké:ton leaping up onto a branch, the Clay One settling higher on a rock spur. Both were bleeding from various stinging, but shallow wounds, and they were both starting to get out of breath.

"You're that Templar wolf-boy Achilles told me about," the Clay One said first. By the lilt of her voice and what he could pick of her face under her hat, Ratonhnhaké:ton guessed that she was probably about his age.

"And you are an Assassin." 

"Why were you following me?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton shrugged. "Your kind are trying to kill the Pack-Father."

She made a soft sound of irritation. "That templar? Haytham Kenway? He's no Pack-Father of yours. Your people have been murdered and enslaved in droves, boy, driven out of your lands. He's no more kin to you than I am."

"He saved my life," Ratonhnhaké:ton shot back evenly, narrowing his eyes. This was no unfamiliar argument - he had heard it before, even from the others of the One-People whom he saved, over the years. "What is your quarrel with him?"

"His kind are a blight on this earth," the Clay One said vehemently. "They ally with true vampires over the seas, and spread their agenda where the vampires cannot reach. They have no interest in helping you, or in helping people. They are chaos."

"What is a vampire?"

The Clay One stared at him, surprised, then she slowly shook her head. "Learn more about this world before you pick sides, boy." 

"My Clay One name is Connor," Ratonhnhaké:ton said irritably, tired of being patronised by a Clay One of his age. 

"Mine's..." She hesitated, then added quickly, "I'm Aveline." 

"You are here to kill the Pack-Father?"

"No. Lord, no. I don't have the strength, I think," she said flatly. "I was just here to consult Achilles on another matter. My own Mentor has other concerns. I was just about to leave New York." 

"Don't return," Ratonhnhaké:ton told her.

"Make me," she shot back, and shimmied up the seemingly sheer rock face with almost preternatural agility. Ratonhnhaké:ton glared after her, almost tempted to draw his bow, but he held back. His arms and shoulder stung from her wounds, and he knew he'll have little chance following her up the rock when his hands were slippery with his blood. 

Annoyed with himself, he returned home, where he promptly nearly walked right into Master Kenway, who had been coming down the stairs. "Good Lord!" Master Kenway exclaimed. "What the devil happened to _you_?"

"Nothing," Ratonhnhaké:ton muttered, which was of course what led Master Kenway to pester him for an answer even as he helped clean and bandage the deeper cuts, and eventually, with a sigh, Ratonhnhaké:ton capitulated. 

"I didn't know that you were hunting Assassins," Master Kenway said, frowning. "They're dangerous prey, and you're not nearly ready."

"I did fine."

"The hell you say. You got mauled by a little girl, you mean."

"What is a vampire?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked Master Kenway, irritated by the drawled statement, and found himself ignored, as the Pack-Father washed his hands in a basin of clean water. "Sir."

"None of your concern. And, Heaven willing, none of mine any longer," Master Kenway said cryptically, even as he tidied up the bloodied washcloth and the fouled water. "Get some rest." 

Annoyed now, Ratonhnhaké:ton repeated, "What is a vampire?" and this time, Master Kenway spun on him, eyes narrowed, quick as a viper, and All-Mother but sometimes Ratonhnhaké:ton forgot what sort of killer the Pack-Father was. Forgot, and let down his guard. 

Long fingers hooked tightly and uncomfortably under Ratonhnhaké:ton's collar, and Master Kenway said, very evenly, "No more questions about that. Yes?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton barely heard him - he was fighting the urge to drop onto his knees, to bare his neck: he could smell violence, feel Master Kenway's dominant, masterful _presence_ , like a drug, like a bone-deep call that pulled at every fibre of his moon-touched soul. He stayed silent, blinking slowly, even as Master Kenway pulled a touch more tightly on the collar. 

"Connor?"

"Sorry," Ratonhnhaké:ton managed to gasp breathlessly, and Master Kenway let him go: only to flinch when Ratonhnhaké:ton instinctively pressed closer anyway, rubbing his cheek against the Pack-Father's shoulder, submitting, scenting. He was still shorter than the Pack-Father, but he would be bulkier in a few years, taller, perhaps. Now, he was a perfect height.

"Connor," Master Kenway said, a little unsteadily. "What are you doing?"

"Apologizing."

"Yes, well, I think I _rather_ got the gist of that the first time." Still, the Pack-Father didn't move, and after a moment, a hand pressed up against the small of Ratonhnhaké:ton's back. 

Pleased, Ratonhnhaké:ton tipped his head up, to lick at Master Kenway's jaw, the way he would with a Pack-Father that he offended, and Master Kenway froze, startled, then took in a slow breath, pressing his lips into a thin seam as Ratonhnhaké:ton tiptoed to nuzzle his cheek. 

Then there was a low, bitten-out oath, and Ratonhnhaké:ton stiffened as he felt fingers dig into his hair, dragging him up for - he wasn't sure what this was, mouth to mouth, Master Kenway _possessing_ him, licking at his teeth, then growling and lapping in further when he tentatively opened his mouth. His heart seemed to jump into a hammering pace, he felt hot and flushed all at once and he was making a low, muffled whine deep in his throat, like begging, like-

Master Kenway jerked back abruptly, with a shaken gasp, blinking as though slapped out of a dream. There was a deepening musk to them both, Ratonhnhaké:ton noted, as he drew in a slow, hungry breath, and he liked it, but the hand in his hair tightened when he tried to lean back up. 

"That was nice," Ratonhnhaké:ton ventured, when a long, awkward moment of silence passed, and he was growing restless.

This only earned him a glower. "I don't think you even had a name for that yet."

"I can find out." 

"God, don't ask Johnson. Or mention this to anyone. Ever." Master Kenway said sharply. 

"If you like," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, confused all over again and not bothering to hide it. "I just said that it was nice."

"You-" Master Kenway cut himself off, but his eyes were dark, searingly _hot_ as they raked over Ratonhnhaké:ton's face, like a great cat waiting to leap, and then the violence and the hunger was gone, and the Pack-Father was stepping away, straightening his clothes. "Don't engage with the Assassins again unless I say so," he said crisply, once he was done.

"All right," Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, still bewildered, but Master Kenway merely shot him one last, considering look before retreating up the stairs. 

Alone, Ratonhnhaké:ton shrugged to himself. Sometimes he forgot that Master Kenway was a Clay One. They were so strange about everything.

IV.

Once Haytham got over the age _and_ species difference _and_ the relative moral wrongness of their position... well. Connor was a beautiful young man, lean going on rangy, on the verge of bulking up; and he was _just_ that flavor of utter innocence that was like a guilty siren call to the deepest recesses of Haytham's long-blackened soul.

He was no thief, though, no tempter: if Connor wanted more, he would have to figure it out for himself.

It wasn't long before Connor did, only a few days had passed before Connor slunk into Haytham's room one night, if through the window, and snuggled up on the bed, curling against him. He nuzzled against Haytham, shyly at first, then growing bolder as Haytham mouthed a wet kiss over his forehead. The boy pressed his mouth with a delicious defiance over Haytham's, shoving until Haytham rolled onto his back, then, straddling Haytham's hips, the little imp grinned, his teeth flashing white in the dim light from the nearly full moon.

"I know the word for it," Connor said, and leaned down for another, hungrier meeting of lips and teeth. "Your kind call it a kiss." 

"Dare I ask how you found out?"

"During the night the Green Dragon tavern has... different female Clay Ones," Connor explained earnestly. "I asked two of them some questions and they showed me. As well as other things."

Haytham was sure that his expression was one of fascinated horror, or something worse - then he let out a huff of exasperation when Connor laughed, the brat. "I overheard people talking when I was out," he corrected, which wasn't much better, in Haytham's opinion. "But just that word. I think you can teach me the rest." 

It was the matter-of-fact way that the boy said it that broke the last of Haytham's resistance. Connor let out another laugh when Haytham twisted to reverse their positions, pinning him, and Haytham had to kiss him to get the smirk off his face, mouthing briefly over the collar that Connor had taken to wearing even at home. _His_. 

The brat doesn't go pliant though, or play at being virginal: he was a wild and hungry young thing, dragging at Haytham's clothes, his sharp little teeth sinking into Haytham's shoulder once bared. Haytham was reminded of Charles' warning, all at once: this wolf pup in his bed will never be tamed. 

Good.

Stripped down, Connor was _exquisite_ , all lean, youthfully taut skin and muscle, and he squeaked when Haytham experimentally got his mouth onto the tip of one furry ear. He got a mouthful of fur for his efforts, but the effect was immediate: Connor's prick had stirred instantly against the sheets, curved and thickening. The boy didn't fight him when Haytham turned him onto his front, nosing down the dark gray-brown scruff of fur that traced down the name of Connor's neck and followed his spine in a narrow 'V' to a finger's breadth past his shoulder blades, then lower, to where the fur feathered up again, downy and soft at the small of Connor's back, thickening and turning bristly into the thick tail.

Connor squirmed, panting and making impatient noises as Haytham rubbed at the root of the boy's tail, curious; only to get flicked in the face. Irritated, he shot a brief scowl up at Connor, who grinned at him from where he was coiled against the pillow, only to blush hotly and turn his face into the pillow when Haytham got a thumb up just under the root of his tail. Pre-caudal glands, Haytham recalled, from one drunken lecture from Church months ago, when they had been discussing the physical differences between humans and the wolf-kind. He stroked lightly, and the tail flicked up, Connor letting out a short, stifled moan, reaching back to grab Haytham's wrist. 

"Pack-Father scent-marks," he groaned, tugging, "Not me." 

"I don't exactly have a set, do I?" Haytham noted dryly, though he stopped, mouthing a play bite over the tight curve of Connor's rump instead. The boy allowed himself to be turned about eagerly enough, and at the first press of Haytham's tongue on his prick, he whined and pushed impatiently against his mouth. Connor had to be held down with an arm across his waist for Haytham to have him properly, all lingering, teasing laps at first until Connor's voice broke into strangled whines, then the careful slide down his throat - almost. The moment the flat of his tongue pressed under the thick head of Connor's cock, the boy let out a high, whimpering sound and spilled.

Haytham spat on the bed as he drew back, and this time, sprawled on the bed, Connor's grin seemed shy - but only for a moment. He was on his knees quickly, pulling nimbly at the rest of Haytham's clothes, and soon had his hand on Haytham's arousal with wicked single-mindedness. "Use spit," Haytham snapped, when Connor squeezed curiously, then he hissed when Connor merely grinned at him again and crouched, licking the upright shaft wet, then sealing his mouth over the tip with obvious difficulty. 

Still, Connor made up for inexperience with a great deal of hungry enthusiasm, and with time - Heaven, with time... Haytham had his hand curled over the furry nape of Connor's neck, and Connor was moaning, arching into his touch, sucking harder on what he could get down his throat, his hand stroking the rest. It was the pleasure of watching this wild thing that was now so much _his_ , more than the clumsy attentions of a virgin that pushed Haytham over the edge, to mark Connor's mouth and chin and hands as he spilled with a sharp gasp. 

Connor, to his surprise, merely blinked for a moment before he started to lick up the mess, God, steady and methodical until they were both clean and the devious brat was grinning at him again like sin itself. When Haytham merely stared, panting, breathless still, Connor licked up against his chin, in that odd gesture of intimate respect, and settled heavily against him on the bed. The boy fell asleep quickly - obnoxiously so - but Haytham could not find it within himself to be annoyed, deliciously sated as he was now. 

When he tickled Connor's ears, Connor made a mumbling sound and curled up more soundly against him, and Haytham let his hand drop, down to the soft fur at the scruff of Connor's neck, slipping his fingers possessively under the leather collar.

4.0.

Pack-Fathers took no mates, but they did take their pleasure, as was their right. Master Kenway had a tendency to react oddly to any disclosure about the customs of the One-People, however, and Ratonhnhaké:ton had decided not to raise the matter whenever Master Kenway questioned why Ratonhnhaké:ton came to his bed. It was duty and it was pleasure. He liked everything: the kisses, the surety of Master Kenway's long, hunter's fingers, the way he _devoured_ rather than took.

Even _this_ was good, this joining, with Ratonhnhaké:ton straddling Master Kenway's lap and _filled_ , so full, balancing himself with an uplifted tail as he rode his Pack-Father hard against the headboard, his growls turning into helpless yelps and finally a full-throated cry that set the Pack-Father into sinking his teeth against Ratonhnhaké:ton's neck, holding him down with careless ease and smirking as Ratonhnhaké:ton whimpered and whined and squirmed where he was spitted deep. 

"Please," Ratonhnhaké:ton slurred, hands scrabbling at Master Kenway's broad shoulders, his arms, the strong frame of his chest, and the Pack-Father smiled at him with moon-humour, with the twisting smile like a knife, and Ratonhnhaké:ton knew he would find no mercy even as he hurt, he _wanted_. 

"You can do better than that, boy," Master Kenway drawled, even with lust darkening his eyes and his voice he was in control, imperious and commanding as always and Ratonhnhaké:ton shivered, licking at his lips, lost. 

He begged, stumbling, sliding between the tongue of the Clay Ones and the One-People until his voice cracked, and only when he was hoarse did Master Kenway roll him onto his back, lifting his ankles to broad shoulders to mate him, to drive against him so roughly that his spine ached from it but All Mother forgive him, this was purest ecstasy. 

When they were both spent, Master Kenway rolled onto his flank with a yawn, and Ratonhnhaké:ton nuzzled his shoulder, grinning when a hand swiped irritably at him. "Let me sleep, you've kept me up late enough as it is."

"More," Ratonhnhaké:ton suggested, just to watch sleepy eyes narrow in exasperation. 

"God save me from the young, I haven't your recovery period or endurance. If you still have the energy, go run around outside and chase the moon or whatever it is that you do when you're not hounding me."

"Hm," Ratonhnhaké:ton hummed as he slouched against Master Kenway's warm bulk, leaning his chin on a shoulder. "But I like how you taste," he added, and grinned again when Master Kenway's cheeks coloured. Clay Ones could be funny.

"Dear God, _never_ say that in polite company. Better yet, don't speak at all."

"You never let me have any fun," Ratonhnhaké:ton complained, and smirked when Master Kenway let out an inarticulate sound of exasperation and swatted him. 

He could afford to be in a good mood. After all, just hours ago, he had broken the last syndicate that dealt with 'dogfighting' rings in New York, all without suffering a scratch, and was close to making inroads in Boston. All because of Master Kenway's original mercy... and then his generosity in teaching Ratonhnhaké:ton the ways of the Clay Ones and their deadly weapons. He was not as deeply gifted as some of the rest of the One People, but the weapons made all the difference hunting by himself.

Mulling this over, Ratonhnhaké:ton realized that he had never quite ever gotten around to paying back the debt that the Pack-Father had said that he owed, years ago when he had been an angry and suspicious child, but Master Kenway was now asleep, and Ratonhnhaké:ton knew better than to wake him before dawn. 

He raised the matter at breakfast instead, seated at the dining table on the ground floor of the den: Master Kenway had taken to eating together with him there rather than in his study, as was proper. Packs broke fast together, after all: as much as he had to endure months of being irritably told to _sit straight_ , use _that_ knife, _don't_ eat this and that _together_ , for _Heaven's sake_ and more. 

"Your debt," Master Kenway echoed, his hand frozen for a moment over his cup, then he took a sip of his tea before continuing. "Ah, yes. Well, Connor, you've served me fairly well as a page boy, and Miss Glaser has nothing but praise for you, quick as you have been to charm her to your side."

Ratonhnhaké:ton eyed him dubiously, tilting his head, but before he could speak, Master Kenway continued, "So I count your original debt to me paid."

"Oh," Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked, briefly lost. "I did not know."

"Still," Master Kenway added, "Rather than running off into the blue horizon, it is my hope that you would stay and... assist with my work. You have a great deal of talent and I know that you've been quite successful in your own affairs - yes, boy, I _do_ keep an ear to the ground. You'll have to be given further training than just combat training, of course, but I have no doubt that you can pick it up."

Ratonhnhaké:ton stared at him for a long moment, even as Master Kenway went back to eating toast and sipping tea, and finally, he said, "If you told me that my debt was yet unpaid, I would have believed you."

"I could not have said that in fairness," Master Kenway shot back, "And by now, I would have hoped that a sentiment greater than a debt-obligation was what bound you to my side." 

It was a dangerous idea to contemplate. Master Kenway, despite everything, was just a Clay One, and Ratonhnhaké:ton knew he was well overdue returning to the Great Tree, to rally his people, to check on those who had fled deeper north. But still he hesitated, and thought about walking out of the door, of leaving, for the last time... and couldn't. Not so easily. Not while Master Kenway was still himself being hunted. 

Finally, he nodded, and Master Kenway finished his tea. Did he seem relieved? No, Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn't be sure. Outside of the bedroom, Master Kenway was buttoned up tight, almost glacial, sometimes. That was why being in his bed was so fun. Ratonhnhaké:ton grinned at the Pack-Father, the way he usually did in bed before he tried something new, and Master Kenway rolled his eyes.

"I should hope that it's not just _that_ , either," he said dryly. "I'll teach you personally, during my spare time, but experience is the best teacher, and I expect you to be willing to take orders. You'll be dealing with more dangerous prey than a few local toughs."

"The Assassins?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked doubtfully.

"With any luck, they've learned to stay out of my business. No, I have other problems that have started to prove intractable. But enough of that for now. Tell me, during your raid last night, what did you do wrong?"

"Wrong?" Ratonhnhaké:ton repeated, incredulous. "I wasn't hurt, and neither were the others. It was a success."

"Swallow your pride, boy. Think back over it again. What could you have done better?" 

At the end of breakfast, after a few stumbling starts and stops, Ratonhnhaké:ton finally earned a grudging, "Good, that's good," from Master Kenway that made his tail immediately start to wag: and this was the sentiment that Master Kenway mentioned, after all. He could ignore it no longer. Despite Pack Law, despite the dictates of the Great Tree, he had made Pack with a Clay One, and it was not something that he could break. 

When they rose to leave, Ratonhnhaké:ton stepped over lightly, to press his cheek high against Master Kenway's shoulder, baring his neck, the way he would formally greet a Pack-Father, and he felt Master Kenway stiffen under him for a moment before a hand crooked up to press over the scruff of his neck, dipping under the collar: a gesture of dominance, of protection. Yes. Master Kenway was Pack and Pack-Father, and Ratonhnhaké:ton would hunt for him, and with him; their path was now one under moon-law. This, he understood now in his bones, and was content.

"Good," Master Kenway murmured, his hand stroking the fur at the back of Ratonhnhaké:ton's neck lightly, as though he had heard. "Good."

**Author's Note:**

> Happy to discuss fics/plotbunnies/cats/etc on twitter @manic_intent or tumblr @ manic-intent.tumblr.com :3 Thanks for reading!


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